bank

When it comes to buying a house, you’d better have a good relationship with a bank. If you don’t, you can kiss your house good-bye.

My good woman and I have now made three trips to the bank together. The first is to ask if they’ll lend us enough money to bid at auction. The second is to confirm purchase, get our riding instructions, get the paper moving. The third is a signing ceremony.

Yesterday Annette slides document after document across her desk. She explains each as it lessens the pile on one side of the desk, passes before our dazed gaze and flashing pens, mounts the pile on the other side of the desk. After 45 minutes we’re done. My good woman never had a joint account before, not even when married: now she has two.

I sort of have an idea what each document is about for fifteen seconds before it passes into the dark cloud of unknowing. What I do know is that I trust Annette’s orderliness and cool competence whereas I trusted nothing about the plaintive, dishevelled Kylie at Which Bank.

My good woman talks of negative gearing and line of credit, whatever they are. She will teach me. Next year’s tax return will be a challenge like none before. All I want to know is how much I must find each week to satisfy the bank. Annette elucidates. Finally she runs me though interweb banking with my new bank and the fees my change of bank will incur.

In the car my good woman praises my efforts on the phone over the past week, linking the bank, estate agent, finding a conveyancer, and hunting for insurance. Our helpers so far are all woman: estate agent Eva, banker Annette and conveyancer Pam. I’m glad they’re woman: I’d be suspicious of men.

Later at home I hop online, shift money from Which Bank to New Bank to cover various fees, set the relinquishing of the title to my current house from the former to the latter.

I ring the car dealer. My new car disembarked onto Australian soil seven days ago after its ocean-going in the Boheme from Deutschland. I’ll need a bank cheque for $30,915.80 to claim it later in the week. This means a visit to Which Bank on Friday morning. My good woman and I have another appointment with Annette on Friday afternoon. I don’t know why.

Meanwhile I copy six photos of our house from real estate ads on the interweb, have them rolling through as my desktop background. I look at each, think furniture, consider colour, contemplate changes.

Rock on.